And This All Bears Repeating
by gaygypsybarmitzva4thedisabled
Summary: "No, I get it," Derek says, another huge, fang-less grin pretty much splitting his face in two. Aaaaaand this is officially the weirdest thing in the history of weird things, ever. "Method acting." Four times the characters and cast of Teen Wolf invaded each others' lives. Pre-Slash Stiles/Derek. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**And This All Bears Repeating**

**Part 1**

"You've never been to a baseball game," Stiles repeats, astounded. "Never."

It's a unique moment of peace in the middle of the chaos that is the life of a werewolf's best friend. Isaac and Erica are sprawled together, taking up most of the couch, forcing Stiles closer to Derek than he would have necessarily placed himself. On the torn-up blue recliner, Boyd leans forward and shouts at the TV.

After the train car was wrecked, Derek found himself a new semi-creepy abandoned hotspot: the former Beacon Hills library, gutted for renovation and, thanks to budget cuts, left collecting dust ever since. Lydia nearly volunteered to move in too, knees weak and cheeks flushed at the thought of _all those books_, until she realized there was nowhere to plug in her curling iron. Like most of Derek's previous haunts, the place has no functioning gas or electricity. Derek manages, and the pack drags in rejected furniture off sidewalks and lamps and decor from yard sales, so the place isn't as much a Broody Werewolf Lair of Darkness as a Really Extensive Clubhouse Full of Books and Gaudy Junk. In theory, Lydia said once, they could pull up the floorboards and screw around with the wiring and really get this place up and running. _In theory_, Stiles countered,_ this whole place could go up in flames with one_- He caught a flicker of something on Derek's face then, and backtracked into an endless, tangent-filled monologue. _In theory_, he thought, mouth still rattling on, _I'm an asshole._

Boyd, alone, managed to hook up the TV, station a beat-up blue recliner in front of it, and extend the closest neighbors' protected WiFi. Goals accomplished, he sat content, ignoring Lydia's demands for an explanation of his process. Since then, Isaac and Erica teamed up to push and shove a cheap but decently comfortable couch in place beside it, and the place became a home.

Sort of.

Derek shrugs.

"But you have a favorite team, right?" Stiles asks. "Come on."

"Mets are alright," Derek says. "Considering."

Stiles groans. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

"What?"

Stiles breathes an exaggerated sigh. "You live in _California_. You've gotta root for the home team, dude, I mean, that's just the rules."

"I lived in New York for a while," Derek says. "No one ever tried to kill me there."

Stiles tips his head. "Okay, that's fair. But we're going to a game. You, me, Scott… eating overpriced corn dogs, cheering from the sidelines… it'll be like lacrosse, but with you and overpriced corn dogs. We're doing this."

Derek doesn't argue.

* * *

**Mets VS Padres, San Diego, California 8/03/2012**

"You made it!" Stiles crows, returning to his seat to find Scott sitting with Derek,who seems to have gotten into the spirit of things: his shoulders are tension-free, his signature exhausted-by-your-antics expression AWOL. Scott said he'd try to come, but Stiles'd kind of assumed he'd be ditched for Allison again. Apparently not.

Scowl-free Derek, Allison-free Scott… Things are looking up, in a big way.

"Dude, you look different, man," Scott says, by way of greeting. "Did you buzz your head? Like, since we we got here?"

Derek bounces his eyebrows high, smirks. "Hair and makeup's gonna love this." He claps Stiles on the back, his grip claw-less and friendly. It kind of freaks Stiles out. "Mets are up."

"Shockeeeeer," Scott laughs.

"Uh huh," Stiles says, like Derek's sudden outbreak of smiling is totally ordinary. Derek's smiles, Stiles assumes, having minimal experience with them, are easily scared off. Like a deer. You don't want to spook it. "That's great. Rub it in my face."

"What the fuck?" Scott says.

"No, I get it," Derek says, another huge, fang-less grin pretty much splitting his face in two. Aaaaaand this is officially the weirdest thing in the history of weird things, ever. "Method acting." His palm finds Stiles' shoulder; he pulls the younger man against him. His touch is different. There's no excessive, wolfy force, just a hug-and-drag. Which, huh. Derek is hugging him. Willingly. His choice. He smiles a bright white grin at the incredibly weirded-out teenager, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he says, "And I get to hang out with Stiles!"

"Fuck, really? That's awesome, bro," Scott says, sounding nothing like himself either. Maybe Stiles is dreaming. Maybe he's finally having that mental breakdown everyone's been waiting for. "Just total improv." Scott sounds high. Maybe they're all high. Maybe Stiles is high. He's never been high before. Is this what it feels like? His mouth is pretty dry, and his head is kind of buzzing, but Stiles kind of assumed it wouldn't make him feel like everything was wrong, like he's gonna have a panic attack in the middle of a baseball game. "I'm gonna try," Scott says, oblivious, as usual, to Stiles' head-spinning existential crisis. "Okay, uuuuuuuuuuuum… Crap! Now I can't think of anything!" Suddenly his eyes light up. "Okay, wait no. Here goes, okay? Try not to pee your pants! This is gonna be awesome!" Disclaimer in place, he widens his eyes comically and growls, "'Allison!'"

Derek cracks up. Stiles takes a moment to let that sink in. Derek Hale is _laughing_. Like a normal person. A really chill normal person. Like… like Matthew McConaughey, but not a douche-bag, and wearing a shirt. "What do we even need Jeff for? We've got this."

"Jeff?" Stiles repeats, and Derek grins again. "Right. No Jeff in Teen Wolf universe."

"Teen Wolf?" Stiles gives up on logic. "Sure. Whatever." Maybe it's the Adderall, keeping him focused, refusing to let him chill. Which, come on, cut a guy some slack, universe. If Derek freakin' Hale can mellow out, why can't Stiles?

"You're blowing my mind right now." Derek's face is inches from Stiles'. So apparently the lack of personal space isn't gonna change, ever. The look on his face is kind of making Stiles feel emotions, though. Weird, weird emotions. Because, hello, Derek Hale is staring into his eyes, and he looks completely freaking _awed_, and- Stiles is just a little bit confused, in a case where _a little bit confused_ means _totally fucking out of his depth_.

"Seriously," Derek says, "You're amazing."

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure this is a mental breakdown. So, okay, he's having a mental breakdown. At least he realizes he's having a mental breakdown. That's a plus, right? Acceptance being the first step to recovery, or something like that.

Shit, he's having a mental breakdown!

Panic rising in his throat, Stiles closes his eyes.

"Funny joke," a very angry werewolf growls in his ear, dragging him by the shoulder to two empty seats and pushing him into one of them. "For five minutes I actually thought-"

Stiles opens his eyes. Ahhhh, relief. Derek- normal, real, grumpy Derek- is getting ready to threaten him with some kind of bodily harm. Actual Derek, not crazy hallucination Derek. He lets out a long breath.

"What's wrong with you?" Derek says. "You smell-"

_Crazy_, Stiles supposes, his relief crumbling. "Oh my god, shut up and watch the game," he snaps.

Surprisingly, Derek does.

Minutes later, Stiles spots them again, two rows up: Derek and Scott, and a long-haired Stiles joining them.

He looks at the real Derek staring off at nothing beside him, at the shadows under his eyes, the flat line of his mouth, at his stress-knotted shoulders. That's real. Stiles knows what's real.

Dad doesn't have to hear about this. Stiles can handle it.

* * *

a.n. : This one is a four-parter. I really do like the idea of actors and characters mingling with their alter egos, and I hope I write the actors believably. I've never written Hoechlin, Posey, or Dylan before. I hope they sound like themselves!

The title is a lyric from The Antler's song "Two."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Least Eventful Halloween Ever, Beacon Hill, Laguna Niguel, California, 10/31/2012**

In a town full of werewolves, Halloween night should be a pretty big deal. Well, Stiles thinks so, anyway. All the lore, the myths, the legends- if shape-shifters can completely defy physics, if magic fairy ash is real, shouldn't All Hallows Eve live up to the hype?

Apparently, though, it doesn't get more exciting than a bucket of fun-sized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and incredibly shitty holiday TV. Scott's out with Allison, surprise surprise. Derek's slinking around with his pack somewhere, trying not to get killed. Dad's doing the newly-reinstated Sheriff thing, watching out for teenagers with toilet paper and eggs and something to prove.

Which leaves Stiles on the couch, bouncing his leg absentmindedly and flicking through fifty shades of _this is your life, Stiles Stilinski_.

_What life_, he snaps back at himself, changing the channel four times without looking. Yeah, he talks to himself. Shit happens. Not the kind of shit that makes everyone flood him with research requests, apparently, but the kind of shit that confirms any doubts anyone might have about how much of a loser he is.

He's handling it fine. He knows what's real, there haven't been any episodes since the baseball game, he's not foaming at the mouth. He's just watching TV, alone, on Halloween night.

Who knew a mental break could be this boring?

Disgusted, he throws the remote across the room, gives the TV one last chance to wow him.

Yeah, no dice. It's some old Disney kids show rerun, one of those idiotic sing-along programs with the lyrics on the screen for maximum irritation. What kind of parent puts their kid on a show like that? No way any of these kids made it out of middle school alive. This is the shit therapists buy yachts with. If therapists buy yachts. None of his have ever mentioned a yacht. A helicopter, maybe. Private jet. Small third-world country.

His second-hand embarrassment and overwhelming laziness combat each other as he stares at the remote on the floor, then back at the Jerry Springer guest-in-training program. A terribly animated pumpkin dances above a chipmunk-cheeked little kid doing cartwheels.

"Oh my god."

Stiles' heart slams against his chest.

It's Derek.

No, it's obviously episode number two of _He's Losing His Fucking Mind, Starring Stiles Stilinski_.

Except this time, Stiles has the internet at his disposal. Five minutes later, he's got an IMDB page swearing his sanity. Tyler Hoechlin, actor. He's Derek minus the fangs. He's baseball park Derek. Stiles is actually not insane. Probably. Unless it's a _My Bloody Valentine_ situation, the disappointing remake version, and he's just put up the site to show himself he isn't crazy, or something.

But it probably isn't, and wasn't that guy possessed by a ghost, or something? That ending hadn't made any freaking sense, actually.

Well, there's only one thing left to do. The second-hand embarrassment turns into slightly sadistic enjoyment as Stiles calls Derek on cell phone he'd bought the werewolf for Christmas.

"Stiles." Derek answers on the first ring. "What's wrong? Is it Scott?"

"Nothing's wrong," Stiles drawls, smirking at mini-Derek/Tyler making an absolute fool of himself on the TV. "Everything is really, _reaaaaaaaally_ fantastic."

"I don't get calls when things are fantastic," Derek growls.

"You really don't," Stiles realizes, unwrapping a Reese's and stuffing it in his mouth. "Well, that's depressing."

"You called for a reason, Stiles?" Derek asks, finally. "I've got-"

"People to threaten, places to lurk, an Alpha's job is never done," Stiles says, chipper as ever. "Turn on the TV."

Surprisingly, Derek doesn't argue.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Only the best thing ever," Stiles says, shoving another peanut butter cup down his throat, his face monopolized by the biggest lopsided grin in the history of time. "I'm never going to take you seriously again. This is the moment. You could like, wolf out in front of my face and throw me into a wall and I'd be like, nope, can't be threatened by the Disney sing-along kid." He gapes at the screen. "Oh my god, mini-you just said 'mama's soup surprise.' Oh my god, you're adorable. Oh my _goooood_."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh no you don't." Stiles' fingers start to tap a rapid beat against his leg. "I am not spending another two months thinking I'm losing my mind."

"What?" Derek sounds almost panicked. "Stiles, what's going on? Where are you?"

"Home," Stiles says, his temporary good mood fading fast. "Alone. Yup. Home alone. Practicing my Macaulay Culkin face. Booby trapping the house. Like the first one. He wasn't even home in the second one. You'd think that'd be kind of integral, considering the title. Third one had Scarlett Johansson, so, fine. Fourth one sucked big time. Yeah, Scott's off doing his thing. Allison. Uh. Not _doing_ Allison- although, actually, he probably is. So I'm watching TV like every other friendless total loser does on Halloween night. And look who's on-"

"I'm outside," Derek interrupts. There are two short, sharp knocks on the door. "Let me in."

"Oh my god," Stiles says as he's slammed into a wall by Derek Hale and looked up and down and _sniffed_. "Okay, fine, you win. I take it back. You're freakin' terrifying. Okay? …Is there a reason you're not wearing a shirt?"

"It's easier to run without it," Derek says. Stiles nods.

"Feel the wind through your chest hair. Fantastic. Is there a reason you're sniffing my neck?"

Derek backs off, takes his hands from Stiles' shoulders. "You don't smell high," he says. "You're not hurt."

"Yeah, because getting body-slammed by werewolves is fun for all ages." Stiles gripes, peeling himself off the wall. "I'm human, okay? Velocity plus impact equals pain. Very painful pain."

"Sorry," Derek says, and Stiles starts to rethink the whole not-going-insane theory. "You wanted to show me something."

"Well, it's over now," Stiles says, muting the TV. "But look at this."

Grabbing his laptop with one hand, he knots his fingers around Derek's wrist and drags the werewolf to the couch with him. With five taps on his keyboard and a few encouraging mutters of _Come on _to the gods of speedy internet connections, he pulls up the doppelganger's IMDB page.

"'Tyler Hoechlin,'" Derek reads. "Who's he?"

Stiles looks at Tyler's profile photo, at Derek, at the photo, at Derek. He gapes.

"You, obviously." Okay, this isn't a _My Bloody Valentine 3D_ situation at all. This is that episode of _Bones_ where Brennan thought the dead body looked like her and nobody else did because she was just projecting her fears of her own mortality and insignificance. Except without the fear of mortality and insignificance part. "C'mon," Stiles pleads, panic rising in his chest. "That's your face, okay? That's not- I'm not crazy!"

"Of course you're not," Derek says, looking alarmed. Like, _help, there's a crazy person sitting next to me saying he's not crazy_ alarmed. He looks at the man on the screen again. "You're right. He looks like me."

"Oh my god, shut_ up_!" Stiles shouts, shoving Derek and the laptop away and jumping to his feet. "Don't just lie to make me feel better, you asshole!" He's shaking so hard his vision blurs.

"Okay," Derek says slowly. "Okay." He's careful as he approaches Stiles, almost timid. Derek Hale is afraid of Stiles. It's kind of funny.

It's not funny.

Stiles' throat closes up; the room goes airless, and he can't remember how to breathe, anyway. He can't see, he can't think, can't remember which way is up, and he's falling, he should be falling-

Two strong hands catch him by the shoulders, hold him in place.

"Stiles," Derek says, so close the teenager can feel the werewolf's warm, slow, even breaths on his face, "I know. You're not crazy. I know."

"I think I might be," Stiles says, his voice low and bitter and resigned. "I think-"

"You're not," Derek insists, palms tight and claw-less around Stiles's shoulders. "You're not. I know you're not."

"What if I am, though?" Stiles says. "My dad, he'll-"

"He'd figure something out. I'd figure something out," Derek says. "But you're not. You're fine. You're _Stiles_."

He says the name like it means something other than fuck-up. He says the name like it means something good.

_Derek_ says that.

There's no way this is real.

"My dad," Stiles repeats, wondering how much of this he can trust, wondering if he can trust any of it, wondering who's holding him up, wondering if he's even still standing. "Someone has to check on my dad. All the time. Make sure he's okay."

"You're father's fine," Derek says, if it's Derek talking, if it's anyone talking. "You're fine."

"He won't be." The lump in Stiles throat grows and grows. "He just forgave me for getting him fired, for- He'll start drinking again, he won't stop. Someone has to make sure when I can't make sure. He doesn't have anyone else to make sure, and I can't-"

"Stiles," Derek says, and it sounds like _Calm down_, it sounds like _Stay with me_, it sounds like _You're okay_. "I'll make sure. If it comes to that, I'll make sure."

"Good," Stiles says, and breathes.

* * *

They sit on the floor, backs against the wall, Stiles and his imaginary friend, and they talk about things Stiles never talks about, would never talk about with a real person.

"My mom," Stiles says, deconstructing a stain on the wallpaper across the room like a Rorschach test, "she went crazy."

Derek doesn't say anything, just listens, and Stiles tries not to remember that he isn't really there.

"She was a normal mom," he says, pulling a Reese's wrapper apart and rolling the strips together aimlessly. "Better than normal. She used to make up stories. She had this one she used to tell me all the time," his tone turns almost wistful, for a second, then flashes back to low, tired, "with this kid named-" he stops, swallows, stares at the wall. He needs to get a grip, he thinks, needs to get his freaking shit together, because if his dad comes home, finds him like this-

And he stops, and he stays stopped, and Derek, and Derek's shadow, and the things in the dirt on the wall, and the rest of it, all of it, feels as real as anything. If he can just stop looking close, if he can just stop realizing the edges don't match up, that there's no pattern, no picture, it's just dirt on a wall, that Derek Hale doesn't sit on the floor and listen to teenagers bitch about their feelings, if he can just stop fucking_ thinking_, everything will be fine. Everything will be perfect.

Till someone finds him on the floor, screaming, pulling his hair out, trying to end it all. And someone will, probably, because he can't stop thinking. Any other way, his ticker still ticking, his brain will keep dancing it's hyperactive little jig, and the only way to stop it all, to really stop it all-

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

And he starts again, saying anything that comes into his head, because the more he talks, the less he thinks. His hands rattle around the wrapper. His fingers slide into the creases and tears them open.

"When I got diagnosed, she picked me up from school in the middle of the day, and we went driving, just the two of us." He almost smiles slightly, thinking about that day, but his face won't take direction. His brain keeps rattling on, and he finds the silhouettes of cartoon mice and ducks in the stain of the wall, and he peels the wrapper in his hands, he searches for things to do with his hands, things to dissect with his hands and reassemble with his hands, and he keeps talking. "And she said it was normal, she said I'd take something to help focus, that's all, and that there was nothing to get nervous about. My dad, he didn't like the idea of me taking anything, so she would give it to me where he couldn't see. She said we were like spies, secret agents, you know? And we have to get the package to it's destination, and no one can know. The fate of the world depends on it."

A small, sharp noise comes out of him then, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He drops the shredded wrapper, rubs his thumb under his eye. He's proving it, now, to himself, to Derek, to anyone watching him. He wonders where he really is, if he's seeing things all wrong, if Derek isn't here, and he isn't here, where is he? He has to be somewhere. He wonders who else is with him, if anyone is with him. That's what he needs, he needs more than fucking anything to open his eyes and see his dad staring at him like he's a ghost. Like he's her ghost.

He knows he is; he always knew it was a matter of time. Time tickticktickticking, and his hyperactive brain goes into overdrive, and this time, it's not a panic attack, it's not a nightmare, it's not a fit of rambling, it's his sanity tumbling away from him, unwinding, like a ball of yarn falling down an infinitely long flight of stairs.

_How do you like that metaphor, Mr.-Addison-who-wants-more-than-just-the-facts-in-his-creative-writing-assignments?_

"And then one day I come home from school," he says, and he's here and he's not here, he's here on the floor talking to Derek, talking to Derek's shadow, talking to his imaginary friend, talking to himself, and he's not here, he's there, putting his key in the door, ten years old and starving and expecting Mom to have supper ready, expecting some comment about the briefcase slapped down and abandoned in the hall, expecting anything but-

She's screaming. She's on the floor, and she's screaming, and it's the worst sound, the most terrifying sound he's ever heard.

"And she's on the floor, and she's just screaming. My dad is holding her down and he turns to me and he's like, 'call 911!' And I don't know what's going on, I just stand there. I just stand there, and he says- He says, 'Are you crazy? You want your mother to die? Pick up the phone and call!'"

He stops again-

-starts again.

"So I call, and they say, 'what's your emergency?' And I can't get the words out, I just start rambling. I just started panicking, I didn't know what to say. So I'm just standing there, wasting time. I could have just said, my mom's sick, and the address. That's all I had to say. But I couldn't think. I just kept looking at her, and looking at my dad. And she's screaming, and fighting him, and my dad just looks at me. And he grabs the phone, and I lose my balance, and I'm on my ass on the floor, looking up at him, and he says two sentences and he's done. And he just looks down at me. He just looks right through me. Like he can't believe what a fuck-up his kid is. What a hyperactive little fuck-up I am." He finds a twisted face in the stained wallpaper, or is it a cat? It's a cat, a cat, it has to be a cat. It has to be something smooth and soft and harmless, it's on his wall for fucks sake, he can't handle any more twisted faces, or sad clowns. Or whateverthefucks want to burrow into his head and pull the rest of his sanity out. And he's here, glaring at dirt on a wall, and he knows that. He knows. He just cant be sure. He just needs to be sure, and that one percent of doubt is pulling his sanity train off the tracks. "And he grabbed my arm and pulled me up, and we went to the hospital."

His imaginary friend slides closer to him. They sit shoulder to shoulder, and Stiles almost feels like Derek could be real, could be the warm strong thing against his arm.

He doesn't look, just in case he's wrong.

He looks, just in case he's right.

And Derek's there, he's there, he's solid and real, blue-green eyes wide and cheekbones sharp and lips pressed together and so full of bruised blood they're practically purple, and of course he's shirtless, of course, because Stiles imaginary friend has to be warm and tense and so fuckable it makes him sick. Real Derek, running shirtless, panicking with worry, sitting like a stone and listening and caring, locking his palms around Stiles' shoulders and purring that it will be okay? It's a joke, a hilarious joke. He knows it's a joke, but he can still feel the warmth, the weight against his arm. He knows what's real, he knows, he _knows_, but his brain _won't fucking listen_.

He keeps talking, tries to ignore the ringing in his ears.

"They had to tie her down and put something in her mouth so she wouldn't bite her tongue off," he says, and he's three places at once, or four, splitting and splitting. He's on the floor with Derek, and he's on the floor with his mom, and he's on the floor alone, and he's on the floor, losing his mind behind his hands, and Dad just looks at him, just looks at him with that _look_. And whichever one he is, he keeps talking. "And I didn't see her for a long time, but I saw my dad come back from visiting her, and just going into the bathroom, and turning on the shower, and the sink, and just falling apart, I could hear him-"

He takes a deep, shaky breath. Pulls him knees up close to his chest, hooks them in place with an arm. Runs his palm over his face.

"We went to the hospital to visit her, and she was fine again, she was Mom again." He can just pick one, just pick one and pretend, just stop thinking and questioning and just have one. Just sit here and be there with Mom, screaming, fighting; just sit here and talk with a wet dream that couldn't ever be real; just sit here and be alone; just sit here and be found by Dad, and watch him fall apart again.

"They had her on like six different things," he says, because he doesn't know what will happen if, when, he stands up, leaves this lie. So he doesn't. He sits here, shoulder to shoulder with a figment of his imagination, and he keeps talking. "And she was tired, and pale, and too skinny, and she looked sick. But she knew what she was saying. She was making sense." Stiles fidgets with his shirttails, folding them over and straightening them out. "And my dad sent me out to get two things of Hershey's Kisses from the vending machine. One for me and one for her." His hands are trembling, he's trembling. "And I came back and heard my dad talking to her and he said-" Stiles curls his shaking hands into fists, uncurls them, locks his fingers together. "He said, 'We need you. I need you. _I can't handle him alone_.'"

And Stiles just sits, eyes half-closed and full and empty behind his hands, and stops talking.

Derek says nothing. Which, of course. He's not real.

Because Stiles always knew this would happen sooner or later. Always knew one day he'd stop making sense.

And he'd scream.

And he'd pull his hair out.

And he'd bang his head on the wall so hard he'd get a concussion. So hard he'd fall down and never get up.

And a nurse would find him, and a doctor would sit Dad down.

_I'm afraid we have some bad news._

And Dad would fall apart.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He scrubs his palm over his eyes, blinks until the stain on the wall is crystal-clear.

"You should go," he tells Derek, and laughs a little bit, inside his head, for trying to send away things that aren't there in the first place.

But Derek doesn't go.

He sits shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, and he opens his mouth.

And he says, "My uncle-"

And he says, "Peter-"

And he says, "He used to pull pranks on all of us. Laura had to cut off all her hair after-"

And he says, "He had a daughter."

And he says, "Mackenzie. She was six."

And he says, "She was human."

And Stiles, Stiles closes his mouth.

Stiles stops thinking.

Stiles listens.

* * *

a.n. So this took a pretty dark turn. HOW did a light RPF crack!fic gets so dark, HOW. Don't worry, Part 3 will be lighter (and Derek's 3rd person POV) and also will contain LOTS OF DYLAN O'BRIEN, which should make everything about 70843769x better. Also, Comic-con 2013!

The program Stiles saw on TV is this: (imdb . c0m/ title/tt1668197/)


End file.
